


Cliché Soulmate AU's

by Sybariticfanfiction (SybariticReyna)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Meddling, Minor Injuries, Multi, Polyamory, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, You can't stop me from writing more poly fics, You just can't, i wanna do a fic for everyone tbh, i'm weak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybariticReyna/pseuds/Sybariticfanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy soulmate one shots with the assassins</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ezio

Your words are _annoying_ , plain and simple.

They're scrawled across your thigh in messy, overly curly and infuriatingly off center letters that make it impossible to wear shorts without people seeing the words snaking up the inside of your leg, unable to see more than the first two words.

Which, you might add, are in Italian. You had them translated only once by a friend who happened to speak Italian, and then tried to convince them to teach you Italian for convenience (turns out you're not exactly a linguist).

You do know enough to realize that you're being threatened by a very big and very heavily armed guard. You briefly wonder where the hell your guide went, but knowing her, she's probably off flirting right about now.

So much for a relaxing day. You're in Italy for business, being one of the first to volunteer for such a trip, and today was one of the only days you're allowed to act like a tourist. So _of course_ someone had to piss off the guards. 

One second you were trying to figure out if you really need that scarf, and the next a guard was growling something about an Assassino and shoving you onto the floor.

Maybe hissing, "What the hell is your problem?" in your most venomous tone wasn't the answer. Maybe you could've handled things in a more rational manner.

 _And maybe the guard could've been less of a trash can_ , another part of you snarls. Although his yelling in Italian leads you to think he has absolutely no idea what you just said, that doesn't stop him from grabbing the hilt of his sword. The threat is clear and minutely terrifying.

You can probably escape if you really try, because they don't give chase for back talkers, but what a pain.

You're just starting to tiptoe backwards when a smoke bomb goes off, forcing you to close your eyes. You're starting to think today is just not your day. You yank your collar up, breathing through the fabric. What in the he--

An arm loops around your waist and yanks you out of the smoke, your "rescuer's" laughter the only sound you can make out over the guards yelling. He (you assume) sounds downright excited as he throws you over his shoulder, forcing you to either hold on or fall.

You're still too dazed to think about whether or not you should trust this man, and promptly lock your arms around his neck and bring your legs up on his hips. You honestly can't remember the last time someone carried you piggyback.

He scales the alley wall with little difficulty, despite the numerous weapons he's apparently carrying (you can feel a pommel digging into your thigh) and full grown adult on his back. He's graceful and you have the distinct feeling he's been doing this for a long time.

That doesn't stop you from being scared witless.

You hide your face between his shoulder blades, squeaking.

Please don't fall, please don't fall, please don't fall, you repeat, over and over until you finally reach the roof. He carries you a bit farther even after you smack his arm. The 'put me the fuck down' is silent, but you're sure he hears it anyway.

"Si fa sempre colpire il salvatori?" He laughs. Do you always hit your saviors?

Oh.

Your annoyance breaks into complete and utter shock as he carefully sets you down on the roof. "Are you injured?" He asks now, eyebrows pushed together in worry. He leans closer, tilting your face so he can see you better. Checking to see if they slapped you, probably. It's not uncommon for guards to become physical, unfortunately. Sort of defeats the purpose, if you think about it. "I was not--"

You close the small distance between the two of you without another thought, kissing him softly. He doesn't react at first, obviously shocked. He's just beginning to respond when you pull away to tell him, "You're not gonna believe where your words are."

Unlike yourself, he seems to instantly understand. There's no shock or anxiety in his bright grin as he once again wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to his chest and talking in rapid Italian. You only understand a fraction of the words, but they all sound like compliments.

You interrupt him with a finger to his lips and give him your name, adding, "I'm guessing you're not always called 'Assassino'."

"Ezio Auditore, mi bella." His grin is crooked, favoring the scarred side. "But speaking of the guards..." He sweeps you back up into his arms, laughing when you squeak. "Allow me to get you somewhere safer."

You roll your eyes, "You have some explaining to do afterwards, Ezio."

Maybe the words aren't that much of an annoyance after all.

(He finds your mark three days later, and kisses his words as he informs you he's been wondering about this since he could read English. You can't manage a response)


	2. Altaïr

The Brotherhood doesn't approve of actively searching for your soulmate(s). It's a distraction and a liability, and Altaïr has no intention of searching for his, despite his lovesick Brothers' claiming it to be one of the best to have happened to them.

The characters are messily printed on his wrist, covered by the bracer of his hidden blade. The fact that they're in English just makes avoiding them even easier, honestly. He simply avoids anyone that could speak it, foreigners and importers alike. He's only had it translated once, before his friendship with Malik fell apart. Malik was breathless with laughter he translated, 'Oh, my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't even see you-- what the fuck'.

It's safe to say that didn't exactly help his anti-soulmate perspective.

You're more... Neutral on the soulmate deal. Sure, you jumped at the suggestion to visit the Masyaf compound (or castle, really), but that's not because your soulmate speaks Arabic. Definitely not.

You're here to help mend the rift between the English and Syrian Assassin's. Nothing else.

You try to convince yourself of that whenever you meet a new brother, waiting for the words etched onto your ribs. You lucked out on placement, you suppose. They're very easily covered by the heavy assassin robes you wear, even those worn by the Masyafian assassins. You were given a new set when you arrived, both as a symbol of welcome and to prevent you from dying of heatstroke.

Truthfully, it didn't do much to help the adjustment to the much, and you find yourself much more tired than usual. Between exchanging different techniques and assisting with translating, your days are busy, and your nights are spent tossing and turning.

So it really wasn't _your fault_ when you ran right into a fellow assassin just as you were finishing up training for the day. He's bigger than you, taller and wider, and you very nearly get sent sprawling while he simply stumbles.

Thankfully, you both react very quickly, and he catches your outstretched hands with a grip that could leave bruises. He keeps you upright, just barely.

You simply stare at one another for a moment, both obviously reeling. You can just make his eyes out from this angle, a sharp gold. You would know if you've met him before.

It occurs to you that this is one of the awkwardest introductions to a brother you've had yet (and goodness knows there's been many awkward introductions). That doesn't stop your heart from beating a mile a minute, or prevent you from nervously spitting out, "Oh, my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't even see you--"

He drops your hands as if you've scalded him. The movement is so sudden you barely have time to break your fall with your arms, and you end your apology with a sharp, "What the fuck?"

You rub your now sore elbow with a frown, looking up at the assassin in annoyed confusion. "Why?" You ask, switching back into Arabic. You can only hope he's one of the majority that don't speak English.

His lips tilt up, "I... Apologize." His voice is anything but apologetic, toeing the line of being smug. "I did not expect you to be so klutzy."

His words have your lips curling back in irritation before you realize. Those are _your_ words. Those are _his words_. Your smile is completely involuntary, as is the surprised laugh. _So this is my soulmate._ "You're the one dropping your soulmate on the floor!" You snap back, your words lacking any bite.

His grin widens as he offers his hand, "You should've been paying more attention. Or were you too distracted?"

You allow him to pull you to your feet as you laugh, "Yes, by the crushing loneliness of not having a soulmate. Thank god that's over with." Your sarcasm is biting.

"I thought you would be a civilian." He lets his fingers trace the sheath of your hidden blade, his proud grin melting into a soft smile. It'd be a lie to say you don't wanna kiss that particular expression. He's just as relieved as you are.

"Because most assassins don't crash into people?" You guess. "Or because you're so good."

"I _am_ a master assassin." He tilts his chin up, the cocksure grin making an encore appearance.

Feeling daring, you bring your hands to his sash. "You're a higher rank than me. But you are not an honored guest."

His eyes light up, only for him to scowl, "You're the foreigner that's been training with the others." Your confusion must be on your face, because he continues, "The novices have made their attraction to you painfully obvious."

"Yes, because they're master seducers." You laugh, purposefully tilting your face up. It's an invitation, one you're sure _a master assassin_ such as your soulmate will detect. It's a wonder you haven't tried kissing him already, really.

His eyes narrow, and before you can manage another half hearted apology, his lips are on yours. His kiss is bruising (and you're _very_ okay with that). You press back with equal fervor, the hands previously resting on his sash slipping around his waist. Kissing him until you're breathless and struggling not to ask him where the hell his room is, you pull away with a pleased grin.

"Do you always kiss subordinates?" You tease, kissing the edge of his jaw.

His laughter makes your heart flutter (rather embarrassingly, honestly). "Only when their curses are tattooed onto my skin."

It takes you a second to recall what curse he's referring to. "No." You gasp. "It did not include that. That was a whole new sentence."

"It does." He holds up his wrist, indicating that's where you should look.

You hang your head and bump against his chest in the process. You don't really care to move, instead just mumbling, "I am so sorry."

He shrugs. "The only person who's read it beside myself is Malik."

Awwww. This makes you smile, "How _romantic_. He's the Bureau leader in Jerusalem, correct?" You're still familiarizing yourself with their set up, so it wouldn't surprise you if you're wrong.

"Yes. I would've assumed you two have met." He notes, bringing a hand up to pull your hood down and fix your hair.

You sigh contentedly. There's no instinct to push him away, no voices of reason yelling for you to _be careful, you're an assassin_. Maybe that's what having a soulmate means. "I haven't left the compound since my arrival. I should be doing paperwork right now, actually." You admit.

"You can blame me for delaying you tomorrow." He responds flippantly. "Most of them will be too surprised to care. ' _Altaïr has a soulmate?'_ " He mocks.

...Altaïr, he says. Well, damn, you do recognize that name. Of course you're meant to be with one of the most well known _troublemakers_ of Masyaf.

Your voice betrays your amusement, "And they're much more graceful than he expected."

You feel his laughter more than hear it, "I suppose that's why you were selected to join us?"

"And because I was the only one who could speak Arabic fluently, which is sort of your fault." You hum, "What did you think I'd be like?" It's a risky question, you'll admit. Asking the soulmate you've only just met what they wanted is never a good idea.

"More cursing, for one. And stuttering." He says. You detect not a sliver of resentment or disappointment. "I am... Thankful you are not a civilian." You understand what he means immediately, recalling how hard it can be to integrate a civilian in the assassin life.

"Me too, even though my words sort of led me to believe you'd know I'm an assassin." You respond, lips quirking. "Although I never thought you'd be the Altaïr of Masyaf."

He makes a noise you'd almost classify as a snort. "The sarcasm is unneeded."

"I beg to differ." You laugh.

"You need to work on your begging." His voice drops an octave, but (unfortunately) he doesn't make any moves to kiss you again.

You're sure there'll be plenty of time for that later anyway.


	3. Haytham & Ziio! !

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA the mandatory angst chapter bc fuck me that's why.  
> Although its go some fluff mixed in so hey.  
> Warning for canon character death! !

You can feel it when they meet, although you can't really explain how. Your marks feel unbearably _warm_ , reminding you of touching a furnace. That instant between contact and pain.

The feeling fades over time, of course, but occasionally you can't help but feel envious. You like imaging how happy they must be, thinking of them wondering where you are too and wishing to complete the triad (Assuming neither of them have another, but you feel like that's not the case).

You meet the first while you're manning the family (you use that term loosely) trading post. You're exhausted from a late arrival last night and just _barely_ awake when she walks in with a child on her hip and what looks like at least three rabbit hides.

"Someone's been busy this morning." You hum appreciatively.

She freezes in place while her son answers, "I did the bait." The way he says it, so determinedly, makes you smile.

"And I'm sure your mom is very proud." You wonder how old he is. Surely not more than five or six, although he seems to be on the small side. Maybe you're just overestimating because of his apparent rabbit hunting skills.

The child turns his attention to said mom, asking, "Ita?"

She shakes herself out of her moment, moving to set him down, "Look for something you'd like, Ratonhnhaké:ton."

He nods excitedly.

She glances back to you when he begins looking over the options, her eyes sharp, calculating.

You smile rather awkwardly in return, trying to understand the suddenly tense atmosphere. "Is something wrong?"

"I thought I had missed you." She finally says, a small smile appearing.

It's your turn to freeze, recognizing her words as your own. "Oh," You gasp. "Goodness," You glance back at the child, "Is he...?" You feel your eyes start to water. _We have a child_. You aren't sure how you're supposed to react to learning such a thing, but right now it seems absolute joy is winning out.

The woman, _your soulmate_ , reaches over the counter to wipe your cheeks off, her smile even more pronounced. "Those are happy tears." She states.

"Yes. Definitely happy tears." You confirm. "It's... My name is (y/n), and I've waited so long to meet you."

"I am Kaniehtí:io," She responds in kind. "And this is Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton." You repeat adoringly. You wonder if its easy for you because you already know quite a few words of their language via trading, or because some part of you has already realized how important he is to you.

He looks up curiously, eye brows pulling together when he sees your tears. "Are you well?" He asks.

"I'm fantastic." You say.

Kaniehtí:io laughs, and you decide it's the prettiest sound you've ever heard.

You later learn he is actually only three and a half, having been born in the spring. You and Kaniehtí:io are happy together, even after you learn the third member of your relationship is a Templar (at the time, you didn't know what that meant, only that it was bad), and they're not together.

Your words are scrawled on her palm while his are between her shoulder blades, the sharp penmanship a perfect match the words on your clavicle. You lucked out on having symmetrical marks, you suppose.

Kaniehtí:io doesn't really like talking about Haytham though, and you respect her boundaries. You can wait to meet him before getting to know him, and if you don't meet him, you are more than content with Kaniehtí:io and Ratonhnhaké:ton. You never thought meeting your destined would come with a son.

And while you might be biased, you think you lucked out as far as said sons go, because Ratonhnhaké:ton is amazing and such a quick learner and great hunter, and _goodness_ do you love your son.

Kaniehtí:io is very patient with you as you learn their language too, and her village is welcoming of your presence after learning you're her destined. Her _non murderous_ destined, to be more specific.

But you digress.

Kaniehtí:io is everything you could've asked for out of a soulmate. She is headstrong and warm and you could spend hours babbling about how great she is, truthfully.

Or _was,_ you suppose.

Your hands are burn scarred when you meet Haytham, and he doesn't look much better. Even from across a market block, you recognize him easily. He's speaking with someone in what looks like a heated argument, although considering you don't know the other, they can't be that important to the Templars.

You simply stare as they continue fighting, unable to will yourself into doing anything else. Haytham is calm and composed, his anger only showing up in little things, his hands clenching and the way he proudly tilts his chin up, while his associate is making wild gestures and red in the face.

You wonder if they're talking about Ratonhnhaké:ton. He did have a mission over in New York a few days ago. You've been busy in Boston, gathering supplies and trying to help to the best of your ability. Some part of you knows that everything you do to help is just moving up your soulmate's death date, but at the same time, you understand Ratonhnhaké:ton's need for revenge. You will support your son even if it tears you apart.

It's not Haytham who notices you, but the mean one. Their lips curl back when they spot you, pointing accusingly, and Haytham's steely gaze soon follows.

Unlike you, he doesn't seem to know who you are exactly. His head tilts at an odd angel as he (assumably) dismisses his 'friend', as if he can't place where he knows you from.

You remain stock still as he approaches, only moving when he slips his arm in yours and pulls you farther from the crowds. He does it so smoothly anyone watching would assume you know each other. Which, is _sort of_ true, you guess.

"Any particular reason for spying today?" He says, his voice painfully polite. You expected the accent from the rare occasions Kaniehtí:io would get drunk enough to speak about him. Usually _mockingly_ , but you took what you could get.

You sort of thought your words would have a more malicious tone though, and the fact they don't is... Truthfully a harder pill to swallow. It'd be easier if he were mean.

You keep your voice even, "I was trying to decide if I should throw my arms around you or try and kill you."

His gait falters the tiniest bit and the hand clutching your forearm becomes acutely painful. "...ah." He says. Glancing out of the corner of your eyes, you see his brows wrinkle. He looks pained, and you can't help but be a little pleased with that. Good. He should feel bad.

He stops in an alley off the main area, now turning to face you. He releases the death grip on your arm only to grab your hands, holding them in front of him.

You allow yourself a split second to look down at your clasped hands and wonder if this could be a date, if things hadn't turned out so horribly.

(Kaniehtí:io would be more than happy to stay home when the two of you go into the city, of course, and you'd bring her back presents. Without this Assassin/Templar nonsense, she would be clan mother, and Haytham would probably be some kind of ridiculously successful businessman. Ratonhnhaké:ton would have three parents who all loved him more than anything.)

"I assume you know who I am." He prompts, pulling you back from your brief daydream.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you." You hum, saccharine as you can manage. Haytham _flinches_ and suddenly your justified anger feels more like cruelty. "I'm sorry. I just-- I don't know--" you stutter over your words, immediately leaning closer to him, to comfort, to help, to do something.

He releases one of your hands and you rest it on his cheek apologetically. "How we're supposed to do this?" He finishes, lips tilting up ever so slightly.

Your answering smile is hopeful. "Yeah."

He leans into your palm contentedly, although his eyes are sharp as ever, "How long are you in Boston?"

You shrug, "A while. I'm... Negotiating with a few traders. The Aquilla needs better equipment and frequent repairs, as I'm sure you already know."

"I've heard rumors." He nods, not upset by this news. You can see him noting that _that's_ where he knew you from. _The Assassin's._

"Our son is the Captain, you know." You might just be a little prideful.

Haytham laughs, "Is he now? His grandfather would be proud."

"I was worried sick the first time they took him out to sea though. No one thought to tell me they were leaving so I just had to wonder for nearly three weeks where the hell my son is." You go on, lips curling back in disdain.

Haytham's smile is infectious though, and you soon find yourself slipping back into a bright grin. "I've also heard how impulsive Conner tends to be." He confirms.

"Conner." You repeat, rolling your eyes. "What'd you call Kaniehtí:io?" It's risky, but with how lighthearted things are at the moment, you figure it's okay.

He snorts, "She said to call her Ziio. After accusing me of being insane, of course."

"You must have some awfully interesting marks." You snicker.

"That's one way to describe them." He responds lightly. "Thankfully they're easy to cover up. Ziio's is here--" he traces the inside of his upper arm, "And yours is here--" He moves your hand to his ribs.

"Mine are on my collar." You say, tilting your face up as if to make them clearer despite the layers of fabric covering them.

You're not sure if you're horrified or charmed when he leans down to kiss the marks. It's a simple gesture, innocent even. It shouldn't have your heart racing the way it is. "Oh." Is all you can manage for a second, your face becoming warmer than its been in years.

God, when was the last time someone was able to fluster you like this? Actually, never mind, that train of thought will just make you sad.

Haytham lifts his head, an all too self satisfied smirk on his lips. "How long will you be in Boston again?"

"A week, at most. I don't trust Achilles' parenting." He encourages Conner's obsessive need to train, and you're not sure either of them really notice how much of a toll it's taken on Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Then I propose a truce." He says.

The way he says it makes you feel like you should be shaking his hand, but you settle for kissing his cheek. "I won't be an Assassin for one week, if you promise to not be a Templar for one week."

"Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you.  
> tbh I'm really digging the ending tho. Turns out I love writing Haytham.


	4. Shay!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham is... Haytham, Shay is very happy, and protag is Angry

He's seen it. There's no doubt in your mind that Haytham has seen your mark, and while that doesn't exactly _upset_ you by any means, you don't like the look he keeps giving you. That calculating, 'what should I do about this' look.

Your words are printed just under your collarbone, the same side of where you took a musket ball that had to be taken out by said Mentor. He did so very efficiently, granted, but removing a chunk of metal from your shoulder is never fun, and you spent the majority of the time screaming into your palm.

You hadn't really thought anything of it at the time, but now you're starting to suspect he knows a Shay.

You've always been told you're lucky after all, with your soulmate's name being part of the mark, but how the hell is it lucky when you've never met anyone named Shay?

Not a single one.

It's just not _fair_.

You stretch out your still sore shoulder as you wait for Haytham to take notice of you, thoughts flickering between stressing over your soulmate and wondering why he summoned you here. It's not as if you have any out standing missions (in fact, you're pretty sure there's still blood under your nails from the last on your hit list, so it seems unlikely that he's already got some more poor fools for you).

"Ken--"

He cuts you off with a hand gesture, simply ordering, "Patience."

You make sure to sigh extra loud. Just so he knows how annoyed you are.

Haytham glances up long enough to make you squirm uncomfortably, his glare only softening when you bite down on your bottom lip. You swear to god he _likes_ making you anxious (Not that you don't pay him back by being an obnoxious fuck, but he's supposed to be classier than that).

You turn away with a low grumble of less than kind words, idly spinning one of your knives. You've always wanted a hidden blade, like Haytham and those Assassins have, but you suppose that would mean you'd have to defect or steal them off some assassin.

_Not all of us have stellar family lines, after all_. You glance disdainfully over at Haytham. How dare he be so cool. It seems like years before Haytham decides to out you out of your misery (although maybe you're just being dramatic).

He strides out, heading down the stairs and to the coatrack. "It's cold. You may want a jacket." He tells you, as if that doesn't just give you more questions.

"Why don't I just borrow yours, mister impervious to snow?" You hmph, yanking on one of the other's jackets. They don't mind you borrowing their stuff. Especially given the Templar uniform is just slightly different versions of the same set.

"I don't think he'd like that." Haytham says, mostly to himself.

You narrow your eyes in return. "Who's he?"

"All in good time, my dear."

"I ain't your dear." You huff, maybe a little too snappily to be considered 'okay'. Haytham, at least, doesn't appear to mind. He only gets snippy when other people are around to hear your back talk.

There's a peculiar silence between the two of you as Haytham leads you wherever you're supposed to be, your mentor shooting you glances every few minutes. He looks _excited_ , in his own way, and that sets you on edge like nothing else.

The smell of the docks makes your nose scrunch up as you get nearer, while Haytham just starts walking even faster.

You force yourself not to grab the back of his jacket like some child, afraid to lose their parent in the crowds. You're a Templar, dammit. You won't stoop to that.

It isn't until you reach a rather imposing ship that you hesitate. Haytham strolls up the ramp like he's the Captain, while you anxiously glance between the dock and the ship (although truthfully, you'd prefer not to be on the ship at all).

You're not afraid of the ocean. You're not.

It just makes you jittery. And not in a good and caffeinated way.

"Come now," Haytham chides, glancing over his shoulder. "There's some people I'd like you to meet."

You follow him obediently, but not without a cringe and muttered curse words. "What kind of people?"

"This is a Templar vessel." He answers, purposefully vague. You practically cling to his side as he waves down a stray crew member lounging on deck, ordering, "Get your Captain. He's expecting me."

"Not us?" You chirp as the man scurries away, knowing the distinction is important.

"You're the surprise." He assures you condescendingly.

You grind your teeth and pointedly look out onto the ocean instead of at Haytham. Nothing you say at the moment will come out correctly, not with the tight knot of actual anxiety in your stomach.

"Haytham!" Someone yells, his thick accent catching your attention immediately. Irish, you think. Very nice sounding at that. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asks, stopping in front of the two of you.

"Shay." Haytham responds in turn.

Oh.

_Oh._

Haytham says something else, you know, but you can't make much sense of the words because he's _right there_. You don't know what kind of face you're making, but its more than likely locked into the irritated pout you had before Shay appeared.

His lips tilt up as he holds his hand out for you, greeting, "The name's Shay. 'Course, you probably knew that seeing as I'm the captain."

You had a million different memorable and romantic first lines for when you finally met Shay, but all that tumbles out of your mouth is, "Can I just say I love your accent?"

He starts to laugh, very obviously embarrassed, "There's nothing stoppin you from saying so, although..." wait a minute. You can see the moment he remembers. "My destined said the same thing."

"I know." You're not quite sure what you're supposed to do, glancing between the floor and Shay while a brilliant smile makes its way onto your face. He seems to be in a similar state, and you both seem flustered when your eyes meet.

It's Haytham's seemingly exhausted sigh that makes you remember he's here too. And that he _knew_.

You round on your mentor with a scowl, "Haytham Kenway, you son of a bitch, you've known for weeks! I'm gonna kick your ass seven ways to Sunday!"

Shay's arms wrap around your waist before you can hold true on that threat, his chest shaking with laughter against your back. "You sure got a mouth on you, don'tcha?"

"And apparently a pirate for a soulmate." You respond irritably, tilting your face up in an attempt to look at him. He's either too tall or you're too small. Still, you want some way to expression contentment (or maybe just to piss Haytham off). He makes a quiet noise you feel rather than hear when you kiss his jaw.

Haytham is making a horrible face when you glance back at him, and you smile to make it known that was purposeful. His eyes narrow in return. "I will be taking my leave then. I'll send a courier when you're needed."

"I was under the impression I'm always needed." You hum. There's no real bite in it, and both of them know it.

Shay leans down a bit, saying just loud enough for you, "Yeah, by yer soulmate. Let 'im be."

You must blush at that, because Haytham's face contorts again before he departs, leaving you to look over the ship again. "Would you be disappointed if I said I've never sailed before?" You ask curiously.

_"Never_?" He clarifies.

"I'm colonial to the core. Never really had a reason to. Until now, of course. I suppose if my mark had included the bit about being a captain I would've known you were a sailor, but unfortunately..."

Shay stills for a moment, thinking it over. "I'm more excited to teach ya everything then. You're gonna love it."

You get the feeling your aversion to the sea won't be a problem with Shay around. "I'm sure I'll love the captain even more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a fun time with this! !   
> and Haytham's gonna get a continuation that's hopefully not as sad. So... Yeah :3c


	5. Jacob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actor/Actress!reader and Jacob are v cute.

'Don't let your words control you,' They say, as if you've devoted yourself to acting solely because of the words decorating the curve of your neck. Sure, they may've been the reason you started, but not anymore. Now you do it because you can, because you're a fantastic actor and there's nothing like being on stage.

Off stage, you're a nervous wreck pretending to be cool and collected, but on stage, for a time, you're invincible. It's addicting.

Its midmorning when you start walking back home from dress rehearsal, planning to get some lunch before heading back to get your final make up done. First nights are usually the busiest after all, and it takes a while to cover your mark.

Thankfully its not too far a walk between your home and the theater (theatre?). Currently, you're staying at an obscure relative's house, and while she never seems to be home, she leaves little treats on the counter for you regularly. You'd complain about putting on weight if she weren't such a great cook.

It's cold in London, and you're unaccustomed to it. You pull your hands into your sleeves as you walk, your scarf wrapped three times over your neck.

It's also _icy_ in London this time of year, and you aren't the most coordinated. You're just happy your play outfit covers the scraps decorating your knees and palms. Goodness knows they'd be upset if one of the main characters looked like they just got out of a fist fight.

This time though, you're completely convinced it was not your natural klutziness that had you on the floor.

It was some brit in a top hat's.

You yelp as he comes barreling out of the alleyway in front of you, your hands flying up to protect yourself from impact. 'Course, that doesn't really protect your ass from the cobblestones. Your tailbone makes a cracking noise that has tears in your eyes, and the man now on the ground next to you glances up.

There's something really funny about the way he looks at you, like he's trying to be suave despite being on the floor. His hat is crooked and there's snow in his hair, but he still has the gall to grin at you like this was completely part of the plan.

You find your pain dissolving into laughter, bringing your hand up to muffle the sound. _What a nerd_. He seems pleased by your reaction as he pulls himself up, holding his hands out afterwards.

You take his hands, giggling, "Is this the part where you use some horrible pick up line?"

He's stronger than you expected, yanking you up with no apparent difficulty. "No, love, this is the part where I ask to kiss you."

And here you thought your soulmate would be a fellow actor.

A slow smile makes its way across your face. "Oh."

"Is that a yes?" He tilts his head down, stopping just short of kissing you. A gentleman, if not also a flirt.

"That's definitely a yes." You confirm. He kisses you without another delay, keeping it short and sweet. Afterwards he licks his lips and wrinkles his nose. "You taste like stage make up." Despite the less than romantic words, his tone makes it clear he's joking.

Your eyes narrow anyway. "And you taste like someone who won't be getting anymore kisses."

 "Rude." He gasps theatrically, placing a hand over his heart.

"But I might be inclined to change my mind if you tell me your name." You offer.

His grin is instantly back in place and you fight back a laugh. "Jacob Frye, at your service, love."

"Jacob Frye." You repeat, tasting the name contemplatively. "Well, Mister Frye, do you have time for tea?"

"I suppose I can make room for my soulmate in my busy schedule." He hums. Taking your hand, he starts walking in the complete opposite direction of your home. "But my sister would kill me if I didn't introduce you. You got any family?"

"Not in London. Well, not directly. I travel a lot for work, and usually I'm just staying with a friend of the family or some obscure cousin. Inns aren't really my style, so I avoid them if I can." You explain.

Jacob nods. "What about trains?"

"...trains?"

"Evie and I stay in a train. Figured ya know, next time you're here you could stay with us. Evie'd be happy to share her room long as your tidy." He shrugs, but his posture makes you think this is a pretty important offer.

You wonder what kind of life he leads to jump to such a thing so quickly. Not ten minutes after you met him and he's... Offering you a place to stay. There must be a reason.

"Saying "next time" implies I'll be leaving in the first place." You say carefully.

Jacob looks so heartbreakingly hopeful it makes you stumble over your own feet. He catches you with a grace befitting a dancer, his smile returning. "Already falling for me?"

"Be serious." You chide. "It's not my fault I trip over my own feet."

"No, I'd think its mine. The universe's way of balancing us out," He winks.

You feel your smile returning, "Oh, but that can't possibly be right. Because I have it on good authority I'm pretty cute, and you are also very cute."

"Perhaps it's a matter of complimenting one another then." He kisses you then, taking it much slower than last time. This is more explorative, as if he's trying to verify your hypothesis. He's got a hazy smile on his face when you pull away, and the sight makes your heart lurch. "I could kiss you forever." He says lowly.

You're unable to form words for a moment, and without anything equally romantic to say, you simply settle for joking, "You'd be very hungry."

"We'd take snack breaks then." He nods to himself.

"Fair enough." You agree. You want to kiss him again, but your ears are starting to hurt with the cold, and Jacob seems to notice.

"Come on, little dove. Lets get you out of the cold."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob reminds me of a duckling an I can't explain why. This precious assassin. Be nice to him he's gone through some shit. 
> 
> But anyway yeah. :3c I still got more planned. Thank you all for the sweet comments. <3


	6. Conner!

Your soulmate is... Unusual. Not only was your first meeting in the middle of a riot you inadvertently got caught in, but he himself is just not what you expected. Nor is your relationship what you expected.

You always knew he'd be some kind of hero, considering his words are "Are you okay?", but you didn't really figure that title went hand in hand with Assassin.

But Conner is good. You know that without a shadow of a doubt, despite the less than wholesome sounding group he belongs to.

He comes in every few days, once a week if he can help it, and just... Listens as you ramble on about customers you've had and everything else going on in your life. He doesn't talk much, but he'll make snarky remarks that always bring a smile to your face.

Your more regular costumers have long since gotten used to his presence behind the counter, although there's the occasional outlier that makes a comment about letting a native in your bakery. You tell them to get out, usually in a less than professional manner.

Sometimes he'll be injured, or have very suspicious stains on his strange uniform when he arrives, but you let him in anyway. If there's customers, he'll take care of it himself in the kitchen, but if you're free, you'll tend to him.

Thankfully today, he's not hurt. He does, however, reek of salt water. He laughs when you wrinkle your nose, looking his outfit up and down. "What in the world are you wearing?" _Says the person covered in flour_ , some snarky part of you adds.

"Captains outfit. I didn't have time to change." He says.

"Captain?" You parrot.

His smile is a bit wider than usual, pleased by your reaction. "I'm Captain of the Aquila."

"Of course you are." You huff, smiling at your destined. He's just so _great_. How could the universe think you compliment him well enough to have your words on his arm? You're just some baker.

As if he knows exactly what you're thinking, Conner leans over to brush the hair out of your face lovingly. Later, he'll probably ask to braid it, but for now he simply says, "I missed you."

"I missed you more." You reply, singsong as you wrap your arms around his waist. He's not that much taller than you, but he's built like a bear (and he laughed really hard when you told him that).

"Doubt it." Conner lays his forehead on yours, sighing contentedly. His eyes slide shut as he relaxes, allowing you to support some of his weight. Granted, he'd probably send you both sprawling if he were to relax completely, but you're pretty strong from the all the kneading, folding, and mixing you do.

"You're tired." You say, rather unnecessarily.

Conner doesn't even open his eyes, only nodding an affirmative.

You pout worriedly in return, moving out of his embrace to close up shop. "I could go for a nap."

"That's not necessary." Conner says, although his tone is about as apathetic as it gets. He never really puts any heart into his refusals when you offer to do things for him. He never asks for anything either though, and sometimes you wonder if the "I'm not good enough for my destined" street actually does go two ways.

Conner slumps against the wall while you lock the doors and make sure all the perishables are in their places. Tomorrow, you'll either sell the stale stuff at a reduced price or give them to whatever beggars happen to be in the area. You're doing well enough that you don't have to stress over the potential loss closing up early causes (and you're fairly certain the reason the Redcoats aren't imposing on you as much as they used to is out of fear).

You take Conner by the hand when everything is set, pulling him up the stairs to your apartment. Buying the whole building was a smart investment on your part, because your previous home was taken in the fire only a few weeks later.

A fire Conner is helping New York recover from, you might add. Your lovely soulmate has another thing coming if he thinks you don't keep track of the rumors surrounding him. That one in particular was confirmed when he came hom-- back to the bakery smelling of ash.

Conner falls into your bed in an ungainly heap, prompting a laugh. "My graceful assassin." You coo mockingly.

His shoulders hunch up as he tries not to laugh. Voice muffled by the pillow, he simply replies, "I'm tired."

"Mhm." You agree. "So I gathered."

He says something else in his mother language while you change into your bed clothes. Conner keeps his head down as you do so, obviously trying to give you some sense of privacy. Which, is pretty funny, actually. You almost wish he wasn't quite so gentlemanly.

You settle into bed much more subtly, nudging your way into Conner's arms. He pulls you underneath him, scotching down so he can use your stomach as a pillow. "You smell like salt." You say, dragging your fingers through his hair. Still as soft as ever, so you doubt he went for a swim.

"You smell like sugar." He laughs sleepily.

"What a surprise, a baker smelling like sugar. Almost as surprising as me smelling like flour." You hum. "But speaking of surprises, you won't believe what somebody ordered..."

You talk until Conner's breathing evens out, telling him everything and anything about your week. He doesn't fall asleep otherwise, but you've never gotten a direct answer why. You know better to pry into trauma though. Conner will tell you when he's ready, and you'll be okay wondering until then.

You suppose it's a good thing he's so secretive, when two weeks later you're met by a Templar as you open shop.

He lounges against the doorframe, eyeing the display cases like a famished dog. It's the ring that tips you off, your heart lurching at the sight of that cross. "Can I help you?" You barely manage, half tempted to slam the door in his face.

"Name's Thomas." He greets.

You simply stare in return, waiting.

"Heard you been hanging with Conner." He says it conversationally but you're not put at ease in the least.

You're not an assassin. You're not anywhere near an assassin, and that becomes painfully obvious as Thomas bullies his way into your store and grills you for information. You don't have any info though, and he's very obviously displeased. It doesn't become physical, but the way his knuckles turn chalky makes you think he wants to. It'd be easier, after all. You're not an innocent, associating with Conner as you do.

You're in tears by the time he leaves, looking displeased by your lame "we're courting" excuse for his presence.

There's no doubt in your mind he or some other Templar will return later, but you don't wait around to find out. Conner had mentioned Davenport Homestead a few times, and while you don't have a perfect idea of where its located, you know you can find it.

You stuff your pack full of goods and all the coin you can carry, slipping on your sturdiest outfit. Stealing a horse is a little too easy for you, but finding the homestead is not. It's supposed to take a few hours, but you show up at the manor well past noon.

You feel... Numb as you knock on the front door. You'd say you cried yourself out earlier, but you were just too high strung to allow yourself that luxury.

Tt's not Conner who answers the door but Achilles. You wonder, very briefly, what it is about your expression that makes his eyes harden. He's angry but not at you. He makes that clear when he allows you into the house, asking, "Did they hurt you?"

"They-- it was just Hickey. He wanted to but I think his orders said no." You stutter through it while Achilles leads you to the kitchen.

"You did the right thing coming straight here." He says, pressing a cold hand against your forehead. You're shaking now, and you doubt it has anything to do with the exhaustion of riding all the way here. "Stay here."

You nod obediently. Achilles isn't gone for more than a minute, but in that time you take stock of the kitchen and try to pinpoint Conner within it. The game being cured is a clear Conner thing, as are the arrows strewn across the table.

Achilles throws a blanket in your lap when he returns, explaining, "You're going into shock."

"Oh, joy." Is the only reply you can manage, and even that comes out flat.

He doesn't look offended, at least. "Conner should be back before supper, but in the mean time, I want you to tell me what they asked. How did you know Hickey is a Templar?"

"Ring." You tap your own ring finger. "He was... He was trying to figure out if Conner told me things about the Assassin's and why he's at my bakery so often. He didn't threaten violence, but when I said I don't know anything he did that thing--" You mimic the frustrated motion Hickey made.

Achilles makes a face. "I'm sorry."

Even in your panic addled state, you know that's wrong. He shouldn't apologize on behalf of what the Templars' do. "Not your fault. I knew what I was getting into when Conner said he's an Assassin."

Achilles is much nicer while asking for information, at least. He fixes you a plate of food too, and lets you stay with him in the study while you both wait for Conner. You bide the time reading newspapers and assisting Achilles with budgeting. Conner apparently manages pretty well, but his penmanship leaves something to be desired. You think it's cute.

The time with Achilles also helps settle your nerves quite a lot, but you still jump when the door opens. At least he doesn't slam it shut.

"I'm home!" Conner calls, followed by the sound of unclipping weapons. "Achilles?"

"In the study." The old man makes a motion for you to go see him, either because he doesn't want to witness your mushy reunion, or because he's being nice. You think it's the former.

"The mission went well." He says when you approach, although he doesn't bother looking up from where he's trying to unclip his right hidden blade. It gets stuck sometimes, mostly likely because of how old they are, and the fact he has to use his non dominant hand to unclip it doesn't help.

"If you ask me it took way too long." You respond, reaching out to help him. 

Conner freezes.

"Achilles is much less harsh than you made him sound though." You continue cheerfully. The hidden blade comes off easily enough, but Conner doesn't allow you to put it away properly before he's pulling you into a hug. You expect it, but you still let out a surprised laugh when he yanks you to his chest.

"What are you doing here?" He laughs.

"Oh, you know," You answer vaguely. "Stuff, things. Mostly waiting for you."

You're completely aware at some point you'll have to actually explain everything, but for now you're more than happy to just kiss him. He feels more like home than the bakery anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conner's words are on his upper arm and they say "I think you just saved my life." btw. 
> 
> I wanted to do something different with this chapter so instead of a first meeting its more like a snapshot of their relationship. I kinda like it. Although the next few I have planned are back to the first meeting, so...
> 
> I'm planning on the requested Haytham ones and Evie next altho I'm not sure the order. If y'all got anybody else you'd like to see hmu


	7. Evie!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jacob no," the sequel

You'd like to claim you have no idea how you got yourself in this situation, but you know damn well why you're dragging a half drunk and bleeding Jacob Frye to the nearest hideout.

As a Rook you sort of thought the leader, Jacob would be Team Mom, but that duty falls to you the moment he wins a fight. He and the others always celebrate with drinks, and you've found yourself nursing your fellow gang members back to health on more than one occasion.

Thankfully, Jacob's illusive sister Evie usually takes care of Jacob himself, but he blearily told you she's busy tonight, so now you're stuck with him. You've only seen Evie a handful of times, and you've never _spoken_ to her.

You're not sure you want to, either.

Her words are on your hip, "Welcome to the Rooks then." after all, and you have no idea what to do about it.

At the time, you couldn't come up with a proper response, and Jacob came to your rescue with a quick, "This one doesn't talk much. Got a nasty right hook though, don'tcha?"

He, of course, thought you were intimidated by Evie. You were, but not really in the way he imagined.

She's so _pretty_. She makes your breath catch every time she so much as glances in your direction, even if she's only there to scold her brother or give out orders. She's nothing like yourself, graceless and favoring her brother's approach in a fight. Sometimes you think that's a good thing though. Isn't that what soulmate's are supposed to do? Compliment one another?

You wonder what she'd do, if you just walked up to her and said "I'm your soulmate." Or maybe you should apologize first? For keeping it from her for so long?

"What's got you so worked up?" Jacob asks suddenly, his voice obnoxiously loud in your ear.

"What?" You tilt your head as far from him as you can with his arm slung around your shoulder. He's gonna deafen you if he keeps it up.

"Ya look sad. Come on, kid, we just kicked the Blighter's arse, why are you so...?" He tries to mimic your worried frown, but in his inebriated state it comes out looking like he just stepped in something nasty.

You roll your eyes, "Jake, you're drunk. Even if I tell you, you ain't gonna remember it tomorrow."

"All the more reason." He responds.

 _Hmph._ "You make a fair point." You allow slowly. "What if... What if I told you I met my soulmate?"

His eyes go wide and he stops in his tracks. "You did? Who? One a the Rooks?"

"She's... You know her, and that's all I'm going to say. It's just. She said my words, but we were interrupted before I could say mine. So I know and she doesn't."

Jacob looks worried and amused and very, very tired all at the same time. "Well, that's a bloody mess." He says finally.

"I know." You groan. You're compelled to stomp your feet in frustration, but because you're not seven, you resist the urge. "Come on, boss. We gotta get you home anyway. There's no use in discussing my lack of a love life in the middle of town."

Jacob reluctantly agrees, although the glint in his eyes is unmistakeable. He has either figured out who your soulmate is, is planning something, or both. Despite his battle tactics leaving something to be desired, no one would dare call Jacob Frye a half wit.

You just really hope he forgets all about this conversation.

* * *

It becomes painfully obvious that he didn't, one week later. He's got the brightest shit eating grin you've ever seen on his smug face as he tells you Evie needs assistance on her latest attempt at finding some artifact. And that she's waiting for you. Right now.

"No." Is you immediate reply. Your voice is deadpan, but Jacob must see the panic written clearly on your face.

"I'll shove you in there if I have to. She's waiting to tell you the plan." He responds cheerfully.

You take a step back, glancing between the door and Jacob. "You wouldn't dare."

"Come on now, love, we both know I would. 'Sides there's no reason you wouldn't want to work with Evie, right?" He looks at least three times as smug as previously, and you're compelled to just deck him.

Instead, you take a deep breath, straighten your shoulders, and march into the office.

Evie is already pouring over maps and what looks like very old documents when you enter, and she doesn't even glance up before saying, "I apologize for the short notice, but my usual partner is away and I need... A fresh pair of eyes. Jacob said you're well suited for such a job."

Jacob says a lot of things.

What are you supposed to do exactly? How does one tell their soulmate "hey, I've known we're supposed to be together for months now and all I can think about is kissing you but you only know me as one of your brother's Rooks."

You remain silent, long enough for Evie to look up at you curiously. "Well?"

You know, somewhere in the back of your mind that first words aren't meant to be thought out. But that doesn't stop you from being mortified when, "I... I'm sorry, you're just really pretty," pops out of your mouth.

_Oh no._

Thankfully Evie seems just as befuddled. Her eyebrows knit together as she takes it in, watching you nervously glance towards the door and then back to her in a loop. You've no doubt Jacob has barricaded you in, either with himself or his cane while he congratulates himself with a snack.

But maybe you could still escape? There is a window, and while it would take some serious luck... 

"I must say this is not how I imagined us meeting." Evie finally says.

You look at her, gauging her face. She doesn't seem upset. Quite the opposite really, given the blush she's now sporting and the slight smile. That's enough to boost your confidence enough to reply, "Blame Jacob."

She makes a face, "He knows?" Then, more to herself, "Of course he knows."

"My-- your words were "welcome to the Rooks". I've known for a while, and when Jacob asked I only confirmed that he is... acquainted with my soulmate." You explain, hesitantly settling into the chair across from her.

"I would say so." She hums. "He put two and two together and..."

"Now we're here." You finish. "Surprise?"

She smiles. "I suppose I'll have to thank him then. May I ask why you didn't approach me yourself?"

"Every time I thought about approaching you I just about fainted, and also I didn't want to... Explain all this and have this moment in front of a bunch of the Rooks." You tap-tap-tap your fingers against the armrest, a habit you've long since given up trying to break.

She makes a face, as if she doesn't quite agree with your reasoning. She doesn't say anything against it though, and you can only assume that's because she'd like things to remain civil.

"I'm sorry." You finally spit out, avoiding glancing in her direction. God, why is she so beautiful? It's hardly fair. "I really should've told sooner and I know I've messed up but I pro--" Your nervous babble must cover up the sound of her getting to her feet, because the next thing you know is Evie tilting your face up and kissing your forehead.

Not quite the kiss you'd like, but enough to halt your mental processes for a moment.

"It's fate, love, no reason to apologize." She says, voice laced that signature Frye playfulness. "Just don't tell Jacob that. He's already going to be bragging for days."

"...You should kiss me so then I can embarrass him in return." You can only imagine the face he'll make if you start talking about what a great kisser his twin is.

Evie grins. "I was planning on kissing you anyway."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Evie??? And I'm not too confident about the dialogue? But it's cute nonetheless and I'm going to back to Haytham, who we all know I love writing. It's gonna be good I promise


	8. Arno!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU Arno bc his canon breaks my heart and I couldn't do it. Give the poor boy some friends, ubisoft! ! let him live!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Mary is next on The List? I have one of the Haytham requests basically finished and reading for editing too tho... Hmm... 
> 
> I've also got some different fandom works from my birthday special (which is longer going on but nonetheless I am still accepting requests) so I've got lots to do! ! I guess it's a good thing I'm sick. Gives me an exscuse to write all day

Your housemate has the _weirdest_ friends.

Very, very weird.

Like, even if you completely ignore the fact that they're a bunch of assassins, they're just _strange_. It leads to situations like earlier, when you watched Jacob with a morbid fascination as he continued trying to slice what was supposed to be dinner with his hidden blade (didn't work too well), or when you found Altaïr watching Finding Nemo with a borderline horrified expression, or finding stray feathers in your sheets.

Or, in this case, meeting your soulmate at 3:17 in the morning, with your hair messily thrown in a ponytail and a too long shirt as your only outerwear. Conner texted you only minutes beforehand, asking if you were coherent enough to do some first aid.

Conner is the only thing keeping the stranger upright when you open the door, and while you don't see any wounds, he does look exhausted.

You quickly move to the other side of the stranger, huffing, "I didn't sign up for this, you know."

"I know." He laughs tiredly. "I'll make it up to you."

You assumed his friend was too out of it to notice conversation around him, so it takes you by surprise when he says, "Sorry for the blood, mon ami."

_Holy fuck._

_Is he...? He is. He's gotta be. He said my words, holy shit_. You nearly trip in shock, and Conner sends you a curious glance over his head. "You okay?"

"I should be asking your friend that." You try to laugh it off, shaking your head. _Okay, okay, healing first_. Then you can... Talk to him. Probably. You just barely resist the urge to sneak another peak at him until you reach the kitchen.

Conner helps him settle into a chair while you grab the med kit and wonder who this is exactly, aside from your soulmate. He's trying to get his shirt off when you turn back around, which you're... More than happy to allow Conner to help him with. God knows what'd pop out of your mouth if you helped.

That being said, there isn't much else Ratonhnhaké:ton can help with. He's not good at treating wounds on a good day, let alone when he seems to be dead on his feet. Your soulmate appears to just have a shallow wound across his collar. Probably from someone trying for his throat. That explains why he's lost so much blood, you suppose.

"Conner, I've got this," You say after a moment, making a shooing motion. "Get some sleep."

Your roomie sends you a grateful smile. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, don't worry." You place a hand on your hip, tracing the words through your too big shirt (meant to be Conner's, but he didn't like the way it fit). "I've got it handled."

Conner's grin widens. "I see."

You smile in return as he retreats, knowing full well he'll want to hear what your words are in the morning. So will everyone else, know that you think of it. Maybe Maria will stop pestering you now.

"So..." Sitting down next to your destined, you smile serenely. It's an expression you've had to master while treating assassin's in various states of consciousness. "You sure do know how to make an entrance."

The look on his face as your words register is priceless. Covered in blood and still managing to look cute, boy, did you luck out. "You're..."

"I'm..." You can't help but tease him a little.

His grin is well worth it. "You're beautiful."

You laugh, all thoughts of exhaustion disappearing. "Am I now? Shouldn't you at least know my name before throwing around compliments?"

"I'm--" He hisses in pain as you begin to clean the wound, but he seems much more preoccupied with staring at you than paying attention to said wound. "Arno Dorian."

Oh, the accent makes sense now, although Conner only mentioned him being foreign. "You're the one searching for Shay, right?" Explains why he and Conner would be working together. Your dear roomie also has reason to 'search' for a certain Templar rather than hunt him outright.

"I am. You're... One of us?" You're not sure if the hesitation is because its a risky thing to ask if you're not or because he's in pain.

You shrug, "Of a sort. Don't worry about censoring yourself, assassin."

"I wouldn't." He says definitively. "I wouldn't lie to you. But, I've heard it's hard to get civilians to accept... Everything."

You glance back up at his face, tilting your head curiously. "I didn't mean to imply you're a liar, Arno. And, trust me, I did have a difficult time when Conner came home with a gunshot wound."

He smiles. "I apologize then. How do you know how to treat this anyway? Are you a doctor?"

"Mmm, I was supposed to be, but I couldn't afford it and I had to move back home for a while anyway. I'm only a third year." All your supplies are less than legally obtained too. "Ratonhnhaké:ton and I met through a family friend, and now we're here."

"Raton-- what?" He looks honestly perplexed.

"Conner's real name."

His eyes light up. "You have to teach me how to say that."

"Course." Realizing you've been staring at your soulmate too long, you return to doing your actual job. It's not a deep enough cut to warrant stitches, but tape would be a good idea. Easy and quick. "Does this hurt, by the way? Like bad enough for medicine, I mean." Your various "patients" are very picky as to when and how much medication they'll take, so you have to ask.

He shrugs and then winces when the motion hurts. "I'll be fine, but... What's the English word for that medicine that makes you tired? That might help me fall asleep."

"Benadryl, probably." You supply. "It's an antihistamine. But speaking of sleeping, where are you planning on crashing?" Risky, risky, risky, you berate yourself.

"Oh." He seems startled, but not offended by the question. "Can I... I expected to use the guest bedroom but..."

"You're welcome to stay with me, Arno. Although as your resident medic, I can't recommend trying anything. Anything that requires movement is gonna hurt." You laugh, grabbing the bandages.

His voice lowers, and you have no doubt he's giving you an award winning smirk (even though you purposefully don't look up to see it) as he says, "Plenty of time for that later."

"You and Ezio are definitely related." You deadpan. You do get the feeling his flirting is different than Ezio's though. Ezio is just naturally a flirt, while it seems like Arno is trying to make up for stuttering when you offered him a place to sleep. You file that away for later. 

He laughs and then breaks off with a string of "ow"s.

"I told you!" You mock scold. "No sudden movements."

"I've had worse." He responds, obviously trying to retain some of his pride. "Although, I must admit, I've never had such a gorgeous doctor."

Said gorgeous doctor begins wrapping the final layer of ace bandage around his chest (his cut is in an awkward position, but you manage). "You're so cliché," You roll your eyes. "The French one is a flirt, man, who would've thought?"

"You say that like the others aren't just a bad." He quips. 

"Neither Conner nor Altaïr have called me gorgeous." Malik did once, just to annoy Altaïr. It worked surprisingly well.

"Neither of them are your soulmate." He says in kind.

"They are not." You agree, getting to your feet. "Now, can you walk, or do I have to carry you?"


	9. Haytham (alt)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everyone is a Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when will y'all stop spoiling me with requests for my favorite characters..... they're already my favorites. 
> 
> (I'm joking. pls continue) 
> 
> Itty bitty warning for Thomas being drunk asf but neither Haytham nor reader are drinking so. just wanted to put it out there 
> 
> also silverfox Haytham for no other reason than I dig it lmao

Being a server is _hell_. Even when you're the owner of the establishment.

You're convinced there's nothing worse they can throw at you after a ten hour shift of serving rowdy and gross-as-all-get-out soldiers, all who think they have to right to grab at you. The knives (one on each thigh, covered by your apron, and one purposefully on display) on your person have seen a little more action than usual tonight, but as the night wears down the other drunks seem to get the memo.

People either leave by themselves (or are dragged out by more sober friends), or are taken care of by your lovely bouncer when they get too drunk, and you're left perched on the bar, surveying the remainders.

Most are the sad loners, two of which you know by name, and one little coalition of noble looking men who also appear to be armed to the teeth. One is black-out drunk, rambling about someone named Conner and _how annoying he is, boss._

One of the others seems to be trying to calm him down, while the one who you assume is "boss" looking like he could use another drink. Or a nap, given the circles under his eyes.

You exchange commiserating looks when he glances your way, but he shakes his head when you pick up your pitcher. Interesting. Most people that come in here are more than happy to drown in liquor.

His friend, on the other hand, apparently does subscribe to that way of thinking. "Ey! If Haytham's not drinking, I will!" He says, flashing what you suppose he thinks is a charming smile.

"Not for you." You school your face into what you hope is a no nonsense expression (well, no nonsense enough for them. Usual patrons are easy enough, but your usuals don't carry pistols).

He looks annoyed, but not aggressive. "Come on, sweetheart. I 'aven't had that mush."

Both the 'sweetheart' and the way he pronounced 'much' lead you to believe you've made the right decision. You grab a pitcher of cider before moving over to their table, offering, "How about this?"

His drunk self is unable to tell cider from wine, and you allow yourself a pleased grin as you glance at his friends(?). Associates? You can never tell how noble alliances work. They've even been known to get married to non-soulmate's for political power, for goodness sake!

"You want anything?" You ask the comforting one.

"Water will be fine, thank you." He has a nice smile, if not a bit patronizing.

You only glance at "boss" (what did the drunk call him? Haytham? Now that's a noble name if you've ever one), who seems to be amused by your cider trick.

It takes only a few moments to get the other his water and add cider to their bill. Its quite the list at this point, although given their clothing you assume paying will be no problem.

Haytham takes a deep breath as the drunk begins rambling again, looking up at the ceiling as if praying. He must have the patience of a saint, dealing with these two all the time.

You try to cover your laugh with your hand, but his grey eyes flicker over to you anyway. He raises an eyebrow and you explain, "You look exhausted. I don't know how you deal with," you make a vague motion to his friend, "that."

He laughs like you caught him by surprise. "I must admit I'm feeling much better with you here," He says.

_Oh my god._

He grabs his hat and gets to his feet while you struggle to wrap your mind around your noble blooded soulmate meeting you in a bar, at the small hours of the morning. His friends seem awfully perplexed when he says he'll be taking his leave, and you finally scrounge up enough functionality to move to the bar and say, "Take care of the stragglers. I'm going out with my destined."

Your dear friend and employee looks shocked by this news, only to follow it up with a genuine smile. "Good luck!"

Haytham meets you at the door, holding out his arm as if you're headed to some of kind fancy party and he's your date. How cute.

Oh, what a story this is gonna be. Your lips pull into a slow smile that's matched by Haytham.

"My name is Haytham Kenway." He says, all prim and proper.

You introduce yourself as well, although you doubt its half as graceful. "Kenway..." You repeat after a moment, trying to remember something you heard, probably weeks ago at this point. "I've heard that name before, but I don't know where from."

"Probably no where good. I'm afraid my... Organization isn't the most upstanding in the eyes of the British government." Haytham smiles as though he didn't just admit to being a criminal.

"Are you upstanding in the eyes of the American government?" You try.

"Not quite."

"Mmm." You must make a face, because Haytham looks the tiniest bit worried when you glance his way again. "Don't worry, I'm not too put off by that. Running a bar you meet some interesting people." You assure.

"You do own it then? How did that happen?"

You wonder if he means your age or your social standing. "My father owned it before. He got sick a few years back, and I'm the oldest that's not already married, so it went to me."

"I'm sorry." He says, "I understand its hard."

You shrug. "What about you, mister Kenway? Don't sound like a colonial."

"I'm from London originally. Work brought me here, and now I'm... The leader of our organization." He edits whatever title he was going to use at the last second.

You know its purposeful, but you also know he'll have to tell you eventually. For now you are content with wandering the city with your soulmate, admiring the spring buds and the feeling of Haytham's jacket between your fingers. "Where's your mark?" You hum.

"Leg." He taps his mid thigh. "It just says "you look exhausted." What about you?"

You take your arm back for a moment, pulling the sleeve up so he can see the words serpentinely wrapped around your wrist (which made it very hard to read when they appeared). "You have very pretty handwriting." You say, watching with amusement when he blushes.

"I am not pretty." He replies without any actual anger.

"Handwriting is not something that can be handsome, Haytham. It's pretty."

"You're pretty." He says it with an outrageous amount of confidence, despite it being one of the worst "snappy replies" you've heard (and you deal with drunks all day). That, and the fact that you've worked nearly all day and are no doubt a proper mess, has you in stitches. Pretty? Not likely, at least at the moment, you think.

Haytham tries to look annoyed even as you move to wrap your arms around his waist, using him as a support so you don't end up on the cobblestones as you try and catch your breath.

"You're ridiculous." You declare, bringing your hand up to cup his cheek.

"Apparently that's your type." He tilts his face to kiss the inside of your wrist, just where the mark begins.

Apparently, you agree silently, moving to kiss him.


	10. Malik!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up with backgrounds for each reader is so much fun lmao and also. Malik is awkward w first impressions the poor boy is too shocked

Working with (with, not for) the Brotherhood comes with certain... hazards. You know this well, and have spent the last couple of years becoming more adept at avoiding sticky situations. It was not easy by any means to carve out a niche for yourself, especially with how many other merchants there are in the area, and that led to you becoming involved in trade with the Brotherhood.

Still, even after years of being one of the few trusted merchants, they take you by surprise once in a while.

"Get behind me," The words are an order, ground out between his teeth as he readies his sword.

You aren't quite sure who this man is, or why he's at the dead drop location, but you trust him. Or maybe you trust the words snaking across your waist. The words of your supposed soulmate.

He only has one arm and his clothes look fancy. Not the type they give the newbies you usually have to deal with while handing off merchandise. You only very rarely use a dead drop location like this, only for the riskier items (this time, it's maps of ancient tombs, although you can't imagine what they're looking for). And never have you actually met anyone at a location. That's not really how dead drops are supposed to work, after all.

But are worse ways to meet your soulmate, you suppose.

You ready your own blade, prepped for a fight. You're not the best by any means, especially when compared to people that have been training since birth, but you can hold your own.

And you do, even when killing someone makes your mouth taste sour and one of them slashes a hole in your sleeve. The fight is quick and rather annoying, if you're honest. Fighting is not really your thing.

(And maybe you're a little distracted by the assassin at your side, presumably with your words decorating some part of his body)

He checks to make sure they're all dead before returning his attention to you, eyes narrowing in on the shallow cut. "They hurt you?" He smiles, an expression you know is meant to set you at ease. "Fighting must really not be your strong suit."

How blunt! You try to smother your laugh with your good hand, glancing away from his clearly amused smirk before realizing that's a hopeless effort. There's no way you could not admire that expression. Right? You suppose it could be a soulmate thing but he's...

He's wonderful.

  
He spares the crates so stray glance before moving to your side, his hand hovering over your injury. "May I?"

You nod. It'll be a real pain to get blood out of such a gauzy fabric. It's a dark color at least. Maybe you could redye it if the stain won't come out? You look over his outfit too, noting the blood splatters. So much work.

"So why do you work with the Brotherhood if you cannot fight?" He asks, bringing you back from fretting over fabric.

"I'm good at finding things." You answer automatically.

His hand stills, and you realize those were his words. Dammit. You wanted something more romantic.

"Including you?" You add as his expression morphs from mild amusement to something brighter, something soft.

"I..." He starts, his hand dropping from your injured arm to your hand. His palms are rough, presumably from keeping up with his training, while your calluses are from too much paperwork and bargaining. You are good at finding, but getting your hands on things tend to be a bit more complicated than just locating them.

"It's a pleasure to meetcha." You say, stretching up on your tiptoes. He's still taller than you even with that. Annoying. And rather charming, you'll admit. He's simultaneously not at all what you expected and exactly right. At least, superficially. The rest will come with time.

He laughs. "I could say the same. And what a place to meet."

Oh. He's sassy.

You feel a smile creep up your face. "Are you implying a fight isn't the ideal date?"

"I will show you the ideal date if you'll let me." He squeezes your hand.

You're smiling like a fool, you can feel it, but there's no helping it really. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. "I would love to."

He releases the hold on your hand to wrap it around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You're almost positive you're getting blood on your clothes but being held is... nice. It's been too long. Too many days of watching your back and not trusting anyone any farther than you can throw them.

It's much, much too soon for 'i love you's but you can feel it settle into your bones.

"Oh." He says suddenly, as if he just thought of something. "My name is Malik."

You laugh as you introduce yourself as well. "We... we should get these back to the Bureau, right?" You ask carefully.

"We should." He agrees, strengthening up and dropping his hold on you (and if your touch starved self immediately wishes you hadn't mentioned it, well. That's to be expected). "And then we will go on our date."

You nod and move to pick up the crate. "I've got this if you can search their bodies for information."

He hums agreeably. "Be careful." 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen one of these AU's for assassins creed? ? Don't worry tho I'm here to provide everyone with trashy fanfic ;3c feel free to send in a request!


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